


Crimson

by SonofThrainSonofThror



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Epilogue, F/M, Natasha Romanov Backstory, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 06:37:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5487296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonofThrainSonofThror/pseuds/SonofThrainSonofThror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An epilogue to the first Avengers film, a backstory between Steve and Natasha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> Changes have been made, and this work has been adapted to a one-shot. Sorry for any inconvenience.

Rule #1: Always carry a lighter (even if you don’t smoke).

“Rogers!” The commander barked.  
The young man quickly shut his notebook, and shoved his pencil into his pocket.  
“Fixed your shield.” He blew out a stream of cigarette smoke. Roger’s shield landing with a thud at his feet.  
“Wasn’t cheap either.” Commander Brookes sighed.  
“Thank you.”  
“Yeah well, try not to get shot again.”  
“I’ll try.” Steve chuckled. 

It was 2 A.M. in the dead of winter, frozen wind blew through the vents in the walls. An hour ago, with a hiss and a ceremonious pop, the radiator had died.  
Only thirty minutes left until the mission would start, and yet, while everyone slept, Steve sat rigid. Steam wafted up off his newly ironed uniform, along with the sickly scent of shoe polish. Tonight he wouldn’t be Captain America, but simply a captain. It was to be a negotiation meeting if anything. His comrades would pack ammunition and explosives, all Steve would need was a manilla folder, and a ballpoint pen.  
And yet, he sat frozen with fear. 

“You’ll be fine.” Bucky muttered, and clipped the recorder onto his best friend’s cuff.  
“I’ll be fine.” Rogers echoed.  
“You’ll sign the paperwork, and we’ll walk away with a clean deal.”  
“I’ll sign the paperwork, and I’ll walk away with a clean deal.”  
Buck leaned in closer and whispered, “Look, I nicked a bottle from the officer’s quarters, what’dya say we use that corkscrew on your pocketknife?”  
Steve chuckled despite his nerves.  
“Thought I’d give ya something to look forward to.” Buck added, and clipped the last of the four bugs in place.  
Out of habit, he reached for the shield, but grabbed a briefcase instead. “I’ll see you soon, Buck.” Steve added, and began walking to the car. 

Inside the auto, Peggy sat across from him, toying with the clasps on her bracelet.  
“You remember what we talked about, don’t you?”  
Steve sighed. “Read the fine print, maintain eye contact, wait thirty seconds before I send in backup.”  
She snorted in exasperation. “Take your coat off at the door.”  
“It’s four degrees out there!”  
“It’s polite!”  
Her eyes flicked down to second pair of gloves he was pulling on.  
“Gloves too.”  
Steve stared down at his red knitted gloves. “I’d prefer to keep these on.”  
“Suit yourself.” She huffed, “But if we lose this deal because of a pair of mittens, I’ll kick your ass.”  
He didn’t hear her of course. “They’re red,” Steve could remember his mother saying, “So you won’t lose these in the snow.”  
He kept the gloves on. 

They drove through miles of snow covered forest for what felt like hours, until finally, a small town came into view. Past a grade school, a furniture store, a few restaurants, until they stopped at an intersection. The chauffeur killed the engine and turned around to face the passengers. “We’re walking up to the building.” He announced. “Makes us look vulnerable, and keeps them from tracking our license plates. It’s the building on the corner of 300 West and 875 North. Stay close.”  
They stepped from the heated car into a blizzard. Furious wind blew across the snow filled streets, throwing snow up into the fog.  
“Take my hand!” Peggy screamed over the wind and laced her fingers between his. Together they walked to the corner of 300 West and 875 North, the blizzard screaming in their ears. The fog swallowed them and soon the only thing Steve could see was the red knit of his hand and the negative space of hers. 

The meeting place, as it turned out, was an abandoned music store. It was a squat brick building, with a corroded tin roof. Rubble from the neighboring building was strewn across the front walkway, with barbed wire strung over the mess like a wicked spider’s web.  
Peggy squeezed his hand and walked ahead, picking around chunks of cement and metal. The rest of the procession followed, leaving Steve standing alone on the pavement.  
A flash of red caught in his peripheral vision. In the distance, a figure ducked into an alleyway. 

“Steve?” Peggy called from the doorway, but he was already off, following the streak of red.  
The alley was a gap wedged between the library and a boarding house, lined with garbage and slushy snow. In the back of the alley, leaning against the fence was a girl, no more than 16. She wore only a leotard and a scarlet tutu, her tights torn and bloodied at the knees.  
“Hey!” Steve called to the girl by the fence. Her head snapped up, auburn hair falling out of a knot.  
“Hey!” He called again and stepped into the alley. The dancer pulled a box of matches out of the waistband of her tutu, and produced a cigarette from within her leotard.  
“You got a name?” The girl just shook her head. She struck match after match, but the wind stole the light.  
Steve sat on an overturned crate beside her and pulled out a light. “Here, try this.” He offered the lighter.  
The ballerina balanced the paper roll between her teeth and tipped her head forward. With one hand guarding the flame, Rogers lit her cigarette.  
She smiled gratefully.  
“Name is Romanov.” She added in a heavy Russian accent.  
“So you do speak English!” Steve laughed. She didn't, her gaze fell upon his collar and she frowned.  
Romanov shoved the her cigarette between her teeth and plucked the recording device from his collar.  
“Not in front of bug.” She clenched the mic in her fist and threw it into the wall, shattering it.  
“There's more?” She sighed and shoved Steve’s coat sleeves up to his elbows. The bugs in his cuff links were torn out, ripping the buttonhole open wide. Then she hastily unbuttoned his coat, to Rogers’ surprise.  
“Hey! What're you doing?” He gasped.  
“Taking you off grid.”  
The butt of her cigarette was pressed into the first button, destroying the mic with a flash of sparks. She carried on this way until a fourth of his shirt buttons had been singed.  
“Now we talk.” She took a long draw of smoke.  
“It's awful cold out. Why're you out here?”  
She didn't respond, just blew a train of angry smoke at the white sky.  
“Are you cold, Romanov?” Her name felt odd against his lips.  
“Call me Natasha.”  
“Are you cold, Natasha?”  
Her ribs pushed against the thin fabric. The wells of her collarbones were disgustingly deep.  
She smiled weakly and held up her smoking tobacco. “Now I have fire, why would I be cold?”  
Without thinking, Steve shrugged off his coat, the medals and ribbons gleaming against the drab olive cloth. He held the coat out to her. “Please, take my coat.”  
“No.”  
“Please...Natasha.”  
“You are American, Americans not used to Russian cold. I am used to cold.” But as she said this Steve couldn't help but notice how blue her lips were.  
“Then take my shirt.”  
“Stupid boy.”  
Steve paid no attention but unbuttoned his shirt and wrapped it around her shaking shoulders. She bit her cigarette and looked him dead in the eyes. Her eyes were a deep green flecked with gold. With shaking hands, he clasped the buttons of his shirt.  
He gave her his coat, stopping only to remove the pin bearing his last name.  
“Keeping a souvenir?” Natasha laughed.  
“No,” He replied somberly, “I’m keeping you from getting traced back to me. It’s not very safe for me here.”  
“Oh.” 

Finally, he stood bare chested in the alley, staring at his gloves.  
“Give me your hands, Romanov.” He slipped the wool gloves over her bluish fingertips. A thought flickered by, of him tucking her ruddy hair behind her ear. He quickly shoved it back.  
“Red.” She mused.  
“They’re red,” He laughed sadly, “So you won’t lose them in the snow.”  
She smiled quietly.  
He took a step back, there she stood, his shirt pooling atop her tutu, and his coat soaking in the stench of tobacco. She rose up on her pointe shoes and waved solemnly.  
“You stay safe, Natasha. And you stay warm.”  
He turned to leave, hugging his arms to his stomach to ward off the chill. Just as he’d stepped out of the alley, a parade of automobiles sped to meet him.  
In the background, he heard her shout, “До свидания, мистер Америка!”  
Goodbye, Mr. America…  
And with the rattle of the chain link fence, she was gone.


End file.
